


...And One More

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Halloween Costumes, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, James Bond - Freeform, Misunderstandings, Promise, Steve Feels, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, author loves the characters, carmen sandiego - Freeform, characters who can't use their words, except self-sabotage, nothing against other otps, some pairings are implied, when your OTP wants each other but are too stubborn to do anything about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a scene from "Silver Linings", a separate fanfiction written by Dresupi. </p><p>Steve's observations about what has changed and what's stayed the same while at his first Halloween party in the new age. </p><p>If anything is true, it's that Steve has dealt with that need to be in relationship with someone else. He definitely does NOT feel a twinge of jealously or loneliness when he's around other couples...</p><p>Can be read without reading the other work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And One More

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an homage to Dresupi's OFC and the series that I know was created out of so much love and thought. I sincerely hope to treat what was written with care and respect. 
> 
> Series this is specifically based on is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3827563/chapters/8535604). Take note that this is part of a larger fic-series. My one/two-shot is based on Chapters 10 and 11

If ever there was a time that Steve was actually grateful for the inability to drink, it had to be during his first Halloween AI ( _After Ice_ ).

Truthfully, it wasn’t always something he missed. He had been a lightweight pre-serum anyway, and it only took one time of puking behind Mr. Hat’s dime store while Bucky and the guys laughed and joked about whether or Mary Elizabeth Dougherity dyed her hair, for him to decide that he was better off with just the one beer. Not only was he spared the hangover, he had gotten pretty good at remembering and reminding everyone else what had happened the night before _(including who’d gotten to third base with who, who’d given who that knuckle sandwich, and where’d everyone’s shoes go)._

The only time he’d ever really mourned the inability to get drunk was when he’d lost Bucky, but that had been BI ( _Before Ice)_. The small smudge of guilt and regret he felt whenever he thought about it ignited the craving for something hard, if only not to feel, though he supposed he was getting pretty good at finding other ways to distract.

Which was how he’d grown pretty fond of his television set. Steve had always been a fan of the pictures and even though it had all been pretty overwhelming at first, the box was comforting. The stories told were the same as before but yet, so different. So much bolder and realer and sometimes even too honest. He often shook his head at the way things had _evolved_ so that just watching whatever was on cable was almost about as good as going to a theater. Not that anything could ever beat the experience of sitting down and watching something play out in front of him on a large screen, to the point that he’d forget all about the popcorn. But taking his shoes off and sitting on his couch with all the lights turned off while the intro to _Law and Order_ came on, was an experience unparalled. Especially after Darcy’d showed him how to fast forward through commercials.

When she’d shown him all of the buttons on the remote control, she’d teased that he was definitely as much a man as any she’d known. He guessed that had been because of his reluctance to share it with her, though he figured it couldn’t really be that much of a surprise that he would appreciate a device with the word “control” built right in.

When he put on the tux for Tony’s Halloween party, a part of him had been a little excited, if only to share how much he’d caught up with his popular culture no small thanks to the television programs and movies he’d found time to watch. Little pockets of time when he could unwind and let someone tell him a story. The joke- whispers and wisecracks from people at all levels- was that he was clueless. Fair enough, he had been living under a metaphorical rock, but he’d worked hard to catch up.

 _Catching up._ He felt a little defensive about that. Like he was still trying to prove that he wasn’t as square as his small frame and the clothes that he wore like a hanger. Like “getting the reference” meant he could be included. Something a little desperate and a hefty bit insecure but he tabled those feelings for another time.

It wasn’t that it was his first Halloween party, wasn’t like they didn’t dress up and drink in the forties. Hell, he remembered Bucky getting fresh with a witch in the back of his dad’s car only to face her meatball boyfriend the next morning. But he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect at a Halloween party thrown by Stark. Howard had been about flash and skin and so it wasn’t entirely a stretch to picture, but he also figured he’d done well to pick something easy.

Controlled.

He was a gentleman and a captain, at least in some senses of the word, after all.

Straightening his tie, he decided the music would be different and the skirts would be shorter. Not exactly a problem, he reminded himself, as long as he kept his eyes up where they belonged.

Walking through the threshold of the lounge, early enough to witness the entrance of a sober parade of black cats, pirates, and Dan from HR wearing a shiny blue suit and a Christmas present strapped to his crotch, Steve decided he was ready for the show. A study on just how much had not changed.

Definitely no bobbing for apples in the new age.

“Hey, Captain,” the bartender greeted him warmly. “Happy Halloween. Who are you supposed to be?”

“James Bond,” he tipped his head amiably in return before straightening his face and narrowing his eyes. “And I’d like that martini please.”

“Any special instructions?”

Steve shrugged, because a martini is a martini, but then he caught the expectant look in the bartender’s expression. He was missing something.

“Um… whatever you think sounds right. It’s just for show.”

The bartender nodded, offering no approval or judgment about whether or not Bond was an appropriate getup for the party, and Steve leaned back on the edge of the bar. It wasn’t like he was there to win prizes anyway, ( _if there even were any,_ _winning them be Stark’s M.O., wouldn’t it?_ )

He watched as the team trickled in, as the thumps of the music grew louder and conversations got harder to hear. Tony and Pepper making rounds, her blue gingham and red ruby heels contrasting with his silver facepaint and the little felt heart pinned to his silvery, satiny dress shirt. Darcy in a fascinating Victorian corset decorated with little pocket watches and he wasn’t quite sure where the aviator goggles fit but she looked like the tin man and Dorothy Gale’s child, so he wondered if it had been intentional.

“What are you supposed to be?” she’d asked before reaching for a red jello shot from the tray that had been next to him.

“Bond,” he held up his glass in mock toast.

“Huh,” she raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

He opened his mouth to ask her if he had done it right but they were interrupted by the sound of the words “iron dildo,” something with just the right amount of inappropriate that Steve could figure out who was involved without even looking. By the way Darcy snorted, he figured she could too. Looking over his shoulder, he saw what he’d expected minus a few punches. Tony teasing a pirated Bruce about something, Bruce walking the continued fine line between socking the tin man and letting it go. It helped that Alice was there. Not that Bruce couldn’t keep his cool when she wasn’t but she anchored him, (literally and on all other levels).

“Ten bucks says Alice picked that out,” Darcy smirked. Steve didn’t really bet otherwise because it seemed like the natural order of things, at least according to what he’d been able to observe as the perpetual third-wheel-odd-man-out. One of those things that women in relationships did, across generations.   Someone always dresses like Raggedy Ann to someone’s Andy. Tin Man to Dorothy. Princess to pirate. And he knew that as much as Bruce loved every brown hair on Alice’s head, he’d probably done it willingly.

But Steve was a gentlemen, as mentioned, and so he took the wallet from the pocket inside his jacket out and handed her a ten anyway.

“Are you in costume, or just dressed up?”Alice asked only minutes later, pulling a distracted Bruce toward the bar. Bruce tugged at the tight black pants he’d been wearing before looking up at Steve, only a tinge of red painting his olive skin. It was exactly the kind of outfit Steve figured the doctor would normally never be caught dead in, so far from the loose and casual he usually wore, that any doubts anyone had would have been erased. _Alice definitely picked out these outfits._

“Isn’t it obvious?” he lifted his martini glass up, all the while mentally reviewing what he could have possibly done wrong that no one had guessed who he was. For measure, he repeated the faraway stare he’d practiced in the mirror earlier before taking a quick sip of vermouth and gin.

Bruce furrowed his brows as if unsure but Alice laughed, rich and authentic, as if she’d been an idiot for not getting the gag sooner. In that moment, he loved her a little too, not that he’d tell Bruce that.

“I guess you've been binge watching all the 007 movies,” she grinned and he noted how easy she was, leaning into Bruce like she belonged on his arm. How Bruce pulled her in, that arm around her waist, and any tension he usually wore like second skin melted away. There was something in just how connected they were that made Steve ache a little.

Steve had spent all of his adult life thus far stuffing down feelings like envy when he was around other couples. _Especially Bruce._ If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Bruce. And really, not being attached to anyone was akin to every other sober aspect of his life. If he didn’t have someone reaching a manicured hand through his hair absentmindedly, or if he wasn’t the one wiping leftover lipstick off his lips, he also wasn’t distracted.

That control again. The virtue in being unattached and unaffected.

His heart stirred but he took a second sip of the martini, feeling the bitterness of the booze slide down his throat before tipping the glass towards them. Something to divert attention from how cold being unattached suddenly felt.

“You’d be right,” he acknowledged the comment about his Bond-movie marathons, and maybe the underlying commentary on the companionship he’d gotten out of the soft glow of his television lately. Someone talking when he made breakfast or keeping him up to date on the world while he ironed his shirts. “And the martini is real.”

Fuck, he sounded so earnest. Even though she was honest and caring and he knew Alice didn’t think it was pathetic, even he thought he sounded like a kid showing off his ability to drink real stuff. “It’s really just for show,” he added, wincing as he said it, as if he’d been apologizing for something in advance. For acting his age? For having a sense of humor? Maybe it was just to prove he had manners, that he would keep his head on even on a night created for sin.

“Right,” she nodded, mercifully allowing him to save face by schooling him on her costume before he could hate himself further.

Five minutes later, he was writing down her recommendation for _the Princess Bride_ and Bruce was mumbling about how he looked like a pirate-zorro. Complaining silenced with a quick kiss from his girlfriend that communicated the rewards he’d get for his suffering later on.

Someone turned the music up then, enough that he could feel the beat vibrating through the wood of the bar, and he watched as Bruce leaned in to ask Alice something.

_“What is she supposed to be?”_

Steve followed their gaze and caught Clint and Natasha. Robin Hood and a long, red trenchcoat. Red like tomatoes. Red like coca-cola cans. Red like blood.

"Carmen Sandiego," he heard Alice explain, looking at Bruce incredulously, as though knowing the costume was as important as any other cultural icon. As common as Mickey Mouse and Marilyn Monroe. Steve made a mental note to add Ms. Sandiego to his list too, surprised that something as scandalous would ever be used to teach kids geography.

Her coat opened just enough to give a glimpse of black boots that made him think about doing bad things. He’d been born into the wrong era for sure, because it would have been a whole hell of a lot easier to identify Nova Scotia on a map with those demanding attention.

Steve watched as Natasha tossed her matching red fedora on one of the sofas, silky black hair around her shoulders, before reaching to grab a glass of champagne from a tray that one of the staff was carrying. She might have arrived with Clint, but in that moment he’d decided he was damn grateful for his sobriety.

If ever there was a time to be grateful for the inability to feel alcohol, it was then, because then he wouldn’t have caught the details of her, even as she leaned on Clint or laughed at something he’d said. She looked like a miracle and he was glad he couldn’t miss it.

He couldn’t miss the little things like the pout of her lips or the line of her cleavage, he was a man after all. Or that she’d reached over to pinch her date’s behind at one point, causing Clint to jump before scooping her into his arms.

Or that they weren’t matching. That both spies had clearly chosen their own outfits, an indicator of their independence from each other even as connected as they were. Connected. Just as much as Tony and Pepper, Bruce and Alice, or Thor and Jane. He’d known that for about as long as he’d known them. Known it in how much she’d fought for (and with) Clint when Loki’d done his damage. Known it in how they sparred, an unspoken intimacy in their give-and-take. Known it in the wordless glances they’d exchanged or the way they shared their coffee from the same cup.

Connected but not lost in each other. Interdependent without being dependent. Did that mean that they weren’t exclusive? He’d heard the rumors about Clint, enough to know that he’d earned a reputation, (Darcy had told him she’d turned him down because she didn’t want to be another name in his “ _chicktionary_ ”).

The same hadn’t been said of Natasha, though Steve wasn’t blind or stupid. He’d worked with her long enough to know that her thighs were dangerous in more ways than he could count, long enough to see her find the little things about people that they held close. He’d read her file. Knew she’d been trained to use everything to her advantage. She was an observer. Could sell oceanfront property in Arizona, as the saying goes. There team was lucky to have her for it, even if it did have him second-guessing her intentions at times.

And so he couldn’t fairly say that she was unattached from Clint because there were others, but he also couldn’t say there weren’t.

 _If I was in his shoes, though._ Steve allowed his mind to wander, “ _and if she was mine, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it._ ”

And wasn’t _that_ a dangerous thread to pull on, he recognized, as he watched the party pass it’s life cycle of loud music and drinking and then a slow fizzle as people slipped out, passed out, or retreated to different corners to neck with their (or someone else’s) dates. The latter his perfect reason to hand over his martini glass and call it a night.

Not much had really changed, Steve decided again as he pulled at his bowtie and pushed the arrow down for the elevator. Not that he’d had high expectations.

Stepping into the elevator, hands on the cool metal and glass as if to remind himself that he could still feel even if he couldn’t forcibly impair himself, Steve closed his eyes and waited for the ride down.

Sliding doors interrupted by the clicking of heels on the tile and an indicator that he would be sharing the car down, he peaked open his eyes and tried not to choke on the air.

“Natasha,” he greeted her, noting that the red coat was dangerously open, providing a glimpse into the black halter-bodysuit-dress thing she’d been wearing underneath. _Goddamn (goddamn goddamn)_ , he repeated in his mind a few times. Whatever she’d intended with her costume, she’d achieved.

“Rogers,” she nodded and stood across from him, cool and collected as ever. “Happy Halloween.”

“Your hair,” he blurted before he could stop himself. She raised an eyebrow and touched one of the dark waves that cascaded over her shoulders, as if he’d said something else to embarrass himself. He was just glad he’d said “hair” and not “tits” or “gams” or any number of dirty things that he’d been thinking the whole night.

“Going home, Bond?” she answered and he hoped she couldn’t hear how fast that made his heart beat, (though he wouldn’t put it past her because she was that good).

“Who told you? Darcy? Alice?” he grinned weakly.

She shook her head, “It’s pretty obvious, Steve. You wouldn’t even know how to ask for a martini otherwise.”

“Tony thought I was dressed up for a funeral,” he looked down.

“Yeah, well. Fuck ‘em. You look great,” she shrugged, propping one boot against the wall behind her for support.

“So do you… look great,” he offered, only minimally stumbling. He’d met her eyes when he said it, something he was proud of, even if the ways her eyes darkened was enough to make him forget his name.

“Thanks, Steve.”

She sighed and then second of silence afforded him the time to race through his thoughts for something important or cool to say.

“What about you? Home?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I need to feed my cat.”

“Where’s Clint?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “I think he’s trying to see which office intern has the best weed?”

Steve chewed the thought over. He meant to follow up with a question about her cat but she interrupted him.

“You hummed.”

“What?”

“You just hummed, Rogers. What does that mean?”

“I hummed?” he asked, retracing the past minute or so of the ride.

“Yeah. You asked about Clint and I told you and then you hummed. Like this,” she demonstrated, an edge to her voice that he couldn’t place. Her own defensiveness or just irritation with him. Probably both. And a hum that sounded like surprise.

“I didn’t even realize,” he apologized.

“What does it mean? Why the hum?” she pushed and he heard just a little of the Russian accent then that he knew she’d normally never show.

“I…”

“You have a problem with Clint?”

“Natasha, where is this coming from?”

“JARVIS, stop the elevator,” she said calmly. And he wondered if it was some kind of new era- Halloween prank. Panic the old man in an elevator. The elevator obeyed, his gut lurching in tune.

“Come on, Natasha…” he sighed, not wanting to play any games, especially at his own expense.

“You come on,” she tipped her head and shot him a warning look. “That hum said more than you think it did, Steve. What’s the issue? That he’s upstairs smoking out with half of accounting or…”

And something in him gave way. Being backed into a corner had always triggered that response. Never cowering, never playing dead when someone was calling him out. Because it certainly felt like a tangled ball of truth, that Natasha was accusing him of something while her date was upstairs...

“Yeah, ok. Honestly, maybe I think he’s an idiot, Romanoff,” he stiffened.

“An idiot…” she questioned, taking a step forward.

“Yeah. An asshole. I can give a list of other names approved by Lewis if you want more. Because who the fuck would be so stupid as to let a dame like you out of his sight, especially when you look like that.”

And then she had him by the collar, faster than he could blink let alone take back words he immediately regretted, and his spine was against the paneling of the elevator car. He didn’t know, based on her grip and the way she’d pressed against him, whether or not he’d be wearing a black eye the next day but he refused to back down.

She smelled like vodka and perfume, and he knew he was inhaling it but wasn’t sure he cared because of the signals it sent straight to his brain, to his whole body. She was so _small_ against him, and it shouldn’t have made sense for her to have him pinned so easily, though maybe she’d found another weakness. When he looked into her eyes, catching anger and frustration, he felt for a second guilty. As if maybe he’d picked up a disappointment she’d never admit to. A signal that maybe he hadn’t been the only one feeling alone that night.

She didn’t let go and a second wave of clue recognition hit him. Not just hard feelings about Clint. She held her breath as she clutched his jacket and while he waited for her to breathe, he considered the possibility that there she hadn’t let go because she didn’t want to.

_Want._

Was that what that was? When she licked her lips and he watched her eyelids flutter as she stared at his throat. That it was even possible threw him, not because he’d never been a victim of Natasha’s charm before, but definitely because he’d never seen her be so simultaneously vulnerable.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice suddenly shaking, and he ached to put his hands on her waist then. To lean forward and give her the kiss she deserved or maybe at least needed in that moment. She was perfect and perfectly close, and he knew she could feel that he’d been reduced to a mass of desire in that second. The lines of her body, the realization that he could see the tiny crosshatches on her red lips, could almost feel the wet of her pink tongue as she opened her mouth. Could she also feel how painfully hard he’d gotten? Because fuck if the sight of her earlier hadn’t had him thinking all sorts of things, the feel of her was enough to make him see stars.

But then he hesitated. Because it wasn’t appropriate or sensible or right. Because for a split second, she’d had him in her grip and he would have done anything.

Because for an instant he’d lost control. And she’d seen it.

“I’m too much for you, Rogers,” she said calmly, lips so close he could feel the heat radiating off of them.

He should have grabbed her then. It might not have been that difficult, if control was the issue, to pull her over by the neck and push his mouth against hers to show her that she was wrong and that he could definitely take what she would give him.

But Steve held back and then she was taking a slide back toward the doors.

“JARVIS, we can go down now,” she called out, not taking her eyes off him, her expression a mix of confusion, desire, and what he decided was probably regret. Before he could find the words, before his brain could stop skipping around, the doors were opening.

“Steve. You’ve got to get out. Call Maria or something,” she said quickly, a quiet pant still apparent. He nodded, only because he didn’t want to say anything else to make things worse. And then she was gone and he was leaning against the glass pane of the elevator.

The whole situation was confusing as hell, and he wondered later when he was laying in bed, as if he’d just caught Natasha in a moment when she’d had too much to drink. He thought about how close she’d been, close enough that he knew she’d found at least one more weakness to add to her mental file of things to use against him if she ever needed to. Confusing because it had felt like she had wanted him too, like she would have happily let him in had he been weak enough in character to push that professional boundary.

However true it was, he’d never thought he’d be in the position of nearly kissing another guy’s girl, and so he was also saying prayers that Stark didn’t review and broadcast _those_ security tapes. Mental note to converse with JARVIS in the morning, he decided.

She’d told him to get out. She’d figured him out, hadn’t she? Seen through the quiet and his stubbornness about wanting to stay focused and clear of distractions. He’d told himself he was over the need to be with someone, to just connect and be heard. Even if he’d been lying to himself about how unaffected he was watching everyone couple off, Natasha had seen right through him.

The advice to call Maria. An order from a teammate, he decided. Time to stop moping and shutting down.

Hill had always reminded him a little of Fury. Business and focus. All of the sarcasm and thick skin necessary to stay afloat in a male-dominated environment. Calling her was logical. Obvious and then he felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. He didn’t even know if she liked him, ( _coffee, Steve, not marriage_ ), but he knew she respected him.

He turned off the TV and turned onto his side. Maria had blue eyes, didn’t she? When he fell asleep, it was to the thought of her body next to his, her blue eyes looking up as he tugged on the little spikes of black hair that poked up around her ears.

That her eyes turned green as he relaxed into sleep was something he would choose to actively ignore.   That it wasn’t the short black pixie cut but rather someone else’s hair, long and red that was wrapped around his fingers as he dreamed…She’d had his number and she’d been right. The weight of her against him, even when he wasn’t fully awake to rationalize it, was too much for him. Too much of something he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to let go of. Something begging surrender and capitulation and other words that made him shiver like he was in ice all over again.

Control.

He’d kept it, held onto it tight in that elevator. A quiet revelation that made him feel silently even more confused and yet grateful.

She’d let him.


End file.
